


Laveau

by Idreamofhazel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, New Orleans, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 00:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15545433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idreamofhazel/pseuds/Idreamofhazel
Summary: The boys encounter an enemy they believed their father put to rest many years ago. With the help of an old family friend and her deep roots in the occult can they succeed together where their forebears failed?This is not my own work. The author deleted their blog for work purposes but gave explicit permission for anyone to save and repost their works. Since I loved their stories so much and can't bear the thought of them being deleted forever, even if they aren't finished, I'm reposting them here.Written by HolyWaterBucketChallenge on Tumblr. It is incomplete.





	1. Tradition

**Tradition**  


It had been at least fifteen years since you left.

There wasn’t much keeping you tied to home since your sister, Magda, had passed. With her gone it just left Grand-mère Adele, and you, to carry on the legacy.

Magda was always the one who kept the remaining family civil. Civility wasn’t your strong-suit. Peace didn’t last long in the quarter after she fell ill.

You had tried to stay in the area for a few years afterward, but Mamé Adele had never been able to forgive your actions after Magda’s passing.

With your sister gone, there was nothing holding you in New Orleans - so you ran, taking all Mamé had taught you overseas. The knowledge your last name granted was powerful, but by no means was it singular in nature. It was just older than most other families, more solid.

Traditional.

You were always a bit wild in your practice, the power you carried was only blunted by your lack of devotion to the mechanics. Magda used to joke that if you ever buckled down it would be a struggle to find a match for your skill.

When you were younger, Grand-mère would marvel at your thirst for knowledge. Night after night she and Magda found you buried in musty novels or manuals you had pilfered from the family library. Mamé used to say you could make friends in an empty room if only people were made of pages.

She had once hoped you would claim her legacy. When you had failed it fell to Magda, and now it seemed tradition would die with you. The distinct memory of standing over the fresh earth of your sister’s grave as you and Mamé traded harsh words was the last memory you had of your beloved Grand-mère, and your home.

You had almost forgotten the life you left behind when the trouble sleeping began.

It started a few weeks back, the dreams that spiraled from timid warnings into visceral nightmares. You didn’t have visions frequently, but when you did could typically drown them out with a homebrewed mix of chamomile, lavender, and valerian root.

These were different. Persistent. 

Even after half of a bottle of Flor de Cana and your sleeping draught you still woke in a cold sweat, half-drunk and sobbing. You had always had what Mamé Adele called une âme sensible, a sensitive soul.

You awoke that morning - pillow damp, your eyes swollen - the memory of holding your sister as her lifeblood drained into the dirt, fresh in the forefront of your mind.

It was that morning you got the news.

Adelaide Laveau was dead.

Murdered.

You were needed home.

**Technically**

“Dean! Will you answer your phone?” 

Sam had been standing in the doorway of his bedroom listening to the ringing for at least fifteen minutes. The younger Winchester held his own phone in his hand, whereas Dean must have drunkenly left his out in the library. 

Again.

Sam heard his brother’s door creak open and the familiar scuff-scuff-scuff of bare feet on the bunker floor as Dean came around the corner.

“What the hell, Sam. It’s 6 AM!” The older Winchester wiped his face sleepily.

Sam was incredulous, “You don’t hear that?”

Dean scrounged around in the pocket of his hoodie and held up his cell. “S’not mine.”

Baffled, Sam stepped fully into the hall. “Well…who’s is it then?” A brief moment of puzzlement crossed Dean’s face as he was startled to action.

“Shit.” Dean bolted into the library and began shuffling through papers and boxes with wild abandon, “Help me find it!”

Sam uncovered a small grey flip phone in a box of old files, “No way…is this Dad’s line?”

“Don’t wait all day!” Dean waved at him to answer. Sam flipped open the lightweight plastic and greeted the unknown number.

“Winchester?” A gruff voice tinged with a southern drawl asked.

“Speaking.” Sam responded curtly.

“Samuel,” the cigarette bruised voice began, “You may not remember me, but I remember you well.”

“How…?” The younger Winchester was dumbfounded.

“Your family has been named in the will of Madame Adelaide Laveau. Arrangements are to be held at the residence and the funeral will be held on the family plot in Saint Louis Cemetery.”

Suddenly, things were beginning to fall into place. 

They had worked a few cases with the Laveau family, but Sam didn’t think that Adele and his father were close enough to share property post-mortem. Then again, objects of power passed frequently between hunting families to keep them out of the hands of uninformed civilians.

Sam was highly skeptical that it was just a few curse boxes.

“I’m glad to hear you’re well Father LeRoy. It will be just Dean and I….Dad passed a few years back.” Sam ended somberly.

The Father was silent for a moment, “I had hoped I heard wrong.”

“Afraid not. We’ll be seeing you in a couple of days.” The line toned and Sam folded the phone closed, resting it gently on the tabletop.

“Well?” Dean leaned heavily on the wall.

“Mamé passed.” Sam brought his eyes up to meet his brother’s.

“Crap!” Dean growled, rubbing his hands over his face before turning away to pace back to his room. “Are you kidding me?”

Sam called after his brother, “They’re expecting us…”

“Yeah, I bet! I’m going back to bed.” Dean snarled, “Why does it have to be witches?”

Sam winced and threaded his fingers through his long hair just as the door to his brother’s bedroom slammed closed, punctuating his irritation.

“Technically not witches….” Sam’s comment went unheard. 

It would be a long drive to Louisiana.


	2. Half a Breath

**Today, Tomorrow**  


As you cruised through the streets of the French Quarter you breathed the aroma of cajun spices, perfumed smoke wafting from street-side boutiques, and the sour smell of lingering Mardi Gras celebrations that stained the cobblestones. 

Home. You were home.

It had changed here and there, mostly in the way of renovations after the hurricanes and floods, but it was barely evident in the main portions of the city. It was the less affluent areas that the lingering damage was the most apparent.

The hum of your bike growled and reverberated between the shops, alerting pedestrians to your presence. You scanned the crowds for familiar faces from inside the frosted visor of your helmet, but saw none.

Thank the Gods.

You pulled up to a nearby ATM near a row of bars and smokehouses, of which there were plenty, while whispering an incantation inside your helmet. You watched with glee as the satisfying tick-tick-tick of crisp twenties vomited out of the machine.

Tucking the bills into the flannel of your shirt you mounted your bike and continued down the boulevard, only stopping at a street vendor when the smell of food grew to be too much to ignore.

Po boys. God, you missed those.

Paris, Rome, Madrid - all the rich food of all of Europe could not compare to the taste of New Orleans. You stopped and pulled out a bill and handed it to the vendor and he traded you a crisp roll filled with delicious pulled pork, slaw, mayo and spices.

“Keep the change.” Lifting up the helmet just enough to sink your teeth into the warm, soft bread you tilted your head back in a satisfied moan. The vendor looked over in amusement and shook his head at his griddle.

“Girl, if I could make my wife half as happy as I just made you with that sandwich - I’d be a lucky man.” You grinned, covering your mouth to keep stray morsels from escaping.

“If she’s too stupid to love you for your cooking, I’ve got an opening.” Swinging your leg back over the seat of your bike you fully removed your helmet to allow better access to the first proper meal you had eaten in days.

You took a moment to enjoy it, knowing that after this small victory would be one of the worst days of your life on this side of the veil.

When you finally arrived on the stoop of the family home the face that greeted you at the old oak door was a pleasant surprise.

“Father!” You cried out when you saw the white collar, “Should have known she would have you here to deliver the service.” He spread his arms wide and enveloped you in a warm hug that smelled faintly of incense and old vellum. “You smell like Sunday Mass.”

“Well, Y/N, if you’re in town this weekend I’ll save you a seat up front.” He chuckled.

“I’ll just be here long enough. You know this town never much agreed with me.” You averted your eyes, running your fingers through your hair.

“From what I remember, the town always agreed with you. It was more that you didn’t agree with the people that lived in it.” Father LeRoy spoke in a low voice, his hand under your chin raising your eyes to meet his own even gaze.

“You know why I came. You know I can’t stay.” You mumbled, the priest sighed and ruffled your hair.

“Come inside. Your room is the way you left it.” Father LeRoy made his way over to the parlor and poured two neat glasses of rum and handed you one. “But first….To Mamé Laveau. May her soul rest easy and pass the gates of St. Peter in peace.”

You both silently tipped back the glasses and bowed your heads.

“You, dear…” Father LeRoy spoke while he poured you another tumbler of rum from the crystal decanter, “are going to have a long, trying day. So I leave you with this piece of advice: patience is a virtue that the good Lord did not bless all of his children with.” He capped the decanter and laid a calming hand on your shoulder, “So I recommend, for yours and Mamé’s sake, that for the next forty-eight hours you pretend.”

You couldn’t stifle the chuckle that passed your lips, “You remember me all too well.” Father LeRoy raised an eyebrow at you over his shoulder as he walked into the sitting room to comfort the mourners.

**Half A Breath**

You had been shaking hands and hugging strangers at the wake for three hours and the crowd showed no sign of thinning out.

The stories you heard this afternoon alone, ridding loved ones of sickness, purging homes of evil spirits and even her little menial favors were legendary in this part of the bayou.

She would be missed.

You drained your second tumbler of rum, finally beginning to feel the burn of the alcohol melting away the sharp edges of your stress, when you saw two tall men enter the parlor from the corner of your eye.

They stuck out like black eyes at a Baptism.

Not because they weren’t dressed for the occasion, but more because they were too well dressed. The suits weren’t expensive by any means but they were more than a little out of place. As the head of the house you walked up to greet them, taking your time approaching to observe their mannerisms and take stock of their character from a distance. 

They weren’t local, so how did they know Mamé?

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Your voice cut smoothly across the foyer. You stood expectantly, one hand resting gently on your hip, the other toying with the silver locket below the cut of your dress. The rum buzzed pleasantly in your blood and you found yourself staring up into an oddly familiar countenance. 

The taller one pressed an open hand to the front of his jacket offering the other in greeting, “I’m Sam. This is my brother, Dean. We came to pay our respects. We knew Mamé through our father. They worked together.”

Something about the way he emphasized the word worked resonated. In your mind’s eye you saw a tall man with dark eyes, dark shaggy hair, and a five o’clock shadow.

You felt yourself reach forward.

It wasn’t something you liked to do but, on a day like today after hours and hours of polite conversation, sometimes you just wanted a straight answer. One step closer as he exhaled and you pressed your hand flat against the lapel of his coat.

Silhouette of a man.  
Broad shoulders.  
Yellow eyes.  
Fire.  
Revenge.

“John Winchester’s boys.” You whispered, opening your eyes to stare at the brothers. Sam pulled roughly out of your grip and his brother took a half step protectively in front of him. 

You laughed aloud. As if that mammoth of a man needed protecting. 

“May I get you a drink?” You spun on your heel and felt them trail behind cautiously.

“So you’re her granddaughter?” Dean probed. You dropped a handful of rocks into two new tumblers and poured yourself a generous helping of the Flor de Cana.

“In the flesh, for now.” You handed them their drinks. “Y/N Laveau.”

“We’re so sorry for your loss.” Sam’s expression was pained, “How did she pass?”

“Murdered. Just upstairs as I understand it.” Your face was impassive as you took a slow drink from your glass, casually evaluating their expressions. “To be honest, I haven’t made it up there just yet.” You gestured absently at the bags you left at the bottom of the staircase. Dean’s face contorted into a snarl as he heard the news.

“Are there any leads? Do you know anyone who might-” You cut him off before he could finish.

“I’m here to settle her affairs.” The finality with which you bit out the words illustrated that the topic was closed. “Today we mourn. Tomorrow, I put her in the ground. I’ll be seeing you there I assume?”

“Of course. We’re staying at a motel in town. Call if you need anything.” Sam’s large hand rested gently on your shoulder as he passed you his business card.

“Agent Peter Venkman. Really?” You scoffed, draining your tumbler. “Humor like that is going to rub someone the wrong way in a place like this. We take our ghosts and goblins pretty seriously this side of town.”

“We mean it, Y/N.” Leveling an equally stern look at Dean you turned back to the staircase and hesitated a moment. Resting a hand on the dark wood of the banister you could still vividly remember sliding down the walnut railing when Mamé wasn’t looking. It took Dean’s gentle tap on your shoulder for you to realise he had been asking you a question.

“I’m sorry, what?” You said, shaking yourself out of your reverie.

“Do you want some help?” Dean already had your suitcases in hand before you could protest, Sam offered you his arm up the wide staircase behind his brother. You graciously accepted. The day had worn you ragged and you had been dreading your return to the bowels of the house alone.

As you turned to round the corner towards your old bedroom you nearly bumped into Dean. He was standing rigidly in the middle of the hall.

“Sam.” There was a warning in his tone. You felt the younger Winchester’s arm jump and he pulled you into his chest protectively.

“What is it?” You felt the room change as the tension in the air grew palpable. As you shook off Sam’s embrace and sidestepped Dean your eyes came to rest on the stains.

Dark brown sweeping strokes of a morbid paintbrush had redecorated your childhood home.

For just a split second - half of a breath - you saw her.

Dried blood coated the floorboards in a dark, thick crimson.  
Grey and clouded eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling.  
Limbs splayed at unusual angles.

Then she was gone.

You grasped unsuccessfully for a handhold. As you felt the air leave the room and your vision began to dim, Sam caught you just in time.


	3. We're Coming

“Dean!” Sam called out as your eyes glazed over and your legs buckled. He swept you into his arms as you collapsed into a boneless heap, convulsing wildly, “DEAN!” 

The older Winchester was already Hell bent on destroying the markings etched into the floorboards when he heard the plea. “Get her out of here! Go, Sam!” 

He waved his arm and Sam raced down the hall cradling your limp form.Dean halted abruptly at the sound of heavy footfalls coming up the winding stairwell. He drew his gun with no hesitation and found the barrel pointed squarely at the white collar of Father LeRoy. 

“Jesus, Father.” Dean tucked his pistol back in his belt and bent back to task with his hunting knife - tearing at the floorboards until the markings were indiscernible. It was when Dean saw the priest’s face pale to match his collar that he started to really worry, “What? What is it?”

Father Leroy bent to one knee and eyed Dean intently, questioning whether or not it was in his best interest to answer the hunter. “These markings target the owner of the home. Just this afternoon the will was executed, it belongs to Y/N now.” 

He straightened his shoulders and mustered the resolve to ask, “Where is she?” Laying you down gently on the bed, Sam immediately set to checking your vitals. You had stopped convulsing for the moment and lay motionless on the bedcovers. As he tilted your head to check the dilation of your pupils he recoiled in horror. The Y/E/C of your eyes was being rapidly consumed by blackness.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Sam began the exorcism. The words flowed over his tongue like velvet, just as they had the last hundred times. As he ran through the commands and blessings he was taken aback; she wasn’t bothered by the incantation.

The door opened against the bedroom wall with a sharp bang and Sam made room for the priest who led the way, Dean close behind on his heels.

“She’s been like this for how long?” Father LeRoy demanded, his voice saturated with worry.

“At least twenty minutes, going on half an hour now.” Sam offered, “What’s happening?” 

The look on his face wasn’t the least bit promising.“She’s been spelled. I don’t know much, but from what I saw of it before your brother got to the markings - it’s very old.” Father LeRoy sighed, “Boys, this isn’t exactly my wheelhouse. I can pray for her. That is the best I can offer.”

Dean threw his hands up in defeat, “Great.”

The priest ventured, “Do you know anything about the Devereaux family?”

Sam shook his head, “I’ve heard the name in passing, but never in the best context. You think they have something to do with this?”

“I can’t think of anyone else who would want to do this….It takes a nasty toll on the caster. I can only think of a handful of people powerful enough to even try something like this.” The priest whispered, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket to dab at the sheen of sweat forming on your brow. “They’ve had it out for this family every since I can remember.”

“How are you so okay with this? How do you know the Laveau family?” Dean pressed.

“I’ve been baptizing and burying the members of this family for decades, boy. Decades. This isn’t the strangest thing I’ve seen by a long shot.” The priest heaved a deep sigh, “First her parents, her sister, then Adele, and now her.”

Sam took one last look before turning to Father LeRoy, “She needs someone to stay with her while Dean and I dig into what those symbols meant and how to undo this.”

“I’ll be here.” The priest nodded and dismissed them with a gesture, “I’m not going to bury them both the same week, so hurry up.” 

“Sam, grab the guest book, we’re gonna hit the streets.” Dean turned and left the room, giving Y/N one last lingering glance before Sam had blocked his view.

Sam sighed and hurried down the stairs, into the cool evening air. Dean was right behind him, the book seeming that much smaller in his hands now than it had this morning.

* * *

By the time they got to their last house the sun was nearly set. Dean stepped up the walkway, avoiding some sprawling vegetation, and knocked lightly on the screen door. The front door itself was wide open letting in the cool night air, but no one seemed to be at home. Sam walked along the side of the wraparound porch, trailing his fingers over the leaves of the many potted plants littering the outside of the house.

A voice cut clear through the late afternoon and seemed to hang with power in the air, “May I help you?” Sam could barely make out the shape of a frail woman in her mid 60’s sitting in a recessed corner of the porch. The coal at the tip of her cigar brightened as she inhaled sharply. Sam regained his composure, put on a professional smile, and flashed his badge.

“We’re with the FBI ma’am. My partner and I,” he waited while Dean flashed his own badge, “we’re here investigating the death of Adelaide Laveaux.”

Sam watched the woman’s brow furrow in the glow of her cigar, there was a long pause before she spoke. “Mr. Winchester, please, make yourself comfortable. Speak plainly.” She ordered, deftly tapping the ash, “Your father always did. I found it refreshing.”

At the mention of their family name and their father, both Sam and Dean tensed visibly. Sam was the first to recover, “You must be Mrs. Devereaux.”

“For a little while longer it seems, yes.” She chuckled to herself, “What can I do to help you, boys. You must know by now that Adele and I were on questionable terms, at best.”

“Mrs. Devereaux, I’m sorry to inform you, but Mame Laveau didn’t pass quietly in her home.”

“Samuel don’t patronize me. Anyone who walked into that house during the wake could tell that woman didn’t go quietly.”

Dean leaned forward and narrowed his eyes, “What do you know?”

“Not much anymore, darling. When Adele and I had it out I stopped practicing.” Margaret Devereaux tilted her head back and a slow laugh escaped her lips as she beckoned for the boys to sit in the empty chairs on the porch, “besides, time is a thief. Old age stole my hands from me ten years ago.” Mrs. Devereaux raised her two hands, in the dim light Dean could see that they were riddled with arthritis and curled, stiff and obviously painful.

“I’m so sorry,” Sam muttered, looking at the slats in the porch under his feet.

“Don’t be, darling. You didn’t do anything.” She crooned, her face changed suddenly from unfocused and passive to something threatening and visceral. “Now, when you comes to your accusations regarding Adele, I do find that offensive.” Sam’s face snapped up and his eyes locked with hers.

“But I never-” He protested, Mrs. Devereaux raised a gnarled finger to silence him.

“Why else would you be on my porch, Samuel.” The tone of her voice bit into the air and Dean loosened his gun in its holster, Margaret Devereaux snorted. “You’re funny, Mr. Winchester. I may be old, but I’m not stupid. Adele was a friend, a very old and powerful friend. You and I both know there are things going on here that fit your particular line of work. I’m not the monster under the bed…at least not today.”

Margaret lifted her still smoldering cigar to her lips and breathed deeply, her next words punctuated by the exhalation of smoke, “Now get off of my porch. I’m too tired for your bullshit.” Sam and Dean stuttered, attempting to protest when she tilted her head back and barked up at the windows of the house, “Max, I am ready to retire.”

The shadow of a large man loomed threateningly in the shadows just on the other side of the screen door, waiting for the men to vacate the porch.

* * *

Several hours and houses later, Dean huffed out a defeated sigh.

Their third witness shook her head, diamond teardrop earrings glittering under the dim lighting of old fashioned Tiffany lamps in her living room.

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Cormier.” He smiled politely and stuffed his badge back into his pocket.

“Oh, honey. Please, call me Sandra?” She crooned in a thick creole accent, her hand extended. Dean glanced at Sam, who looked away. But not before Dean saw the shit eating grin plastered onto his younger brother’s face.

Dean swallowed a grimace and took her hand, bringing it to his lips for a millisecond. She giggled like a schoolgirl and bid them goodnight, shutting the door securely behind them.

“Dude!” Sam let out a cackle as they reached the Impala.

“Don’t. Don’t even.” Dean growled warningly and pointing a finger, “Get in the damn car.”

Sam continued to chuckle but did as he was told. The door of the Impala squeaked shut in protest. “So, what now?”

Dean sighed and started the engine, “We’re not gettin’ anywhere with these people.”

“Well I wasn’t,” Sam coughed into his shirt, “you on the other hand…”

“Shut up, Sammy!” Dean huffed, “Let’s just go back and see if we can dig up anything lore wise.” Before Sam could respond Dean had the Impala pointed back towards the Laveau house.

**Reader**

Your head swam with a haze of magical intoxication while you fought for control of your mind.

Something was wrong.  
Broken.

Halfway up the staircase you felt dizzy, but brushed it off as stress from the funeral and grief. Then your knees gave out.

The last image burned into your retinas as you drifted off on a cloud of fog was of long brown hair and a familiar voice calling out your name.

You didn’t see her at first, but the pungent odor of her cigar hit you like a wall. The spicy aroma was thick and syrupy, and it wasn’t the first time you had come across that specific scent.

She was elegant, refined. Cold brown eyes examined you from underneath long lashes as her mouth split into a wide grin, displaying pearly white teeth.

“Y/N….” The features were startlingly familiar, even more unsettling was how well she seemed to know you.

It took you a few seconds to realize you were staring at Margaret Devereaux, the matriarch of a powerful family that resided in New Orleans. 

This was her doing. You weren’t even sure what this was, but you knew if anybody was responsible it was her. “Why?”

“Dear, we’ve missed you.” Her chipper tone was the polar opposite of the glare she was aiming in your direction. Her lilting creole twang held the barest hint of a threat. “You can’t fault me for trying to nip this whole thing in the bud.”

“I left, Margaret.” You felt sick, your stomach twisting as the spell took hold.

“You don’t understand, you’re the last. It ends with you.” Margaret purred, the image of her face twisting until it was unrecognizable. “We are so close. Believe me, dear. I don’t want to, but…” She shrugged and took a long puff of her cigar while her words echoed in your ears, “welcome home.”

Sharp pain lanced across your temple behind your eyes and you pressed the palms of your hands over your face.

Flashes of crimson and the smell of copper invaded your senses.

It felt like hours had passed when you could finally open them. Everything swam in your line of sight so you closed your eyes until the spinning stopped.

The first thing you noticed was the warmth of the water rolling over your shoulders. Lying on cold ceramic you realized slowly that you were in your washroom, fully clothed and drenched under a stream of scalding hot water in the tub.

You placed your hand out in front of you and rested against the cool tile. The fluorescent light was blinding and your eyes were bruised from the intensity of the spellwork.

As you squinted between droplets of water you looked down at your attire and realised you were covered in a layer of dried blood. There was crimson spattered all over the white ceramic of the washroom.

You gasped and began frantically checking yourself, fearing at first it was a wound of your own.

There were none.

Confused and disoriented you shakily shut off the tap, wrapped yourself in the towel behind the door and padded out into the master bedroom where Father LeRoy lay in pieces in the doorway.

**Winchesters**

The phone interrupted their bickering with harsh trills as Sam answered, the voice on the other end didn’t wait for a greeting, “Winchester? Sam?”

“Y/N?” Sam clapped his brother on the shoulder as Dean rounded the exit ramp. He put the phone on speaker.

“I-I don’t,” Your chest heaved as you leaned heavily against the inside of the bathroom door, separating yourself from the remains of the priest, “I don’t know what h-happened.”

“Just breathe, we’re not far.” Sam spoke calmly as Dean pressed his foot harder on the gas, shifting into fifth, “Where’s Father LeRoy?”

Sam immediately regretted the question as he heard sobs echoing through the receiver, “Just, stay where you are. Don’t move.” Sam looked up and the brother’s locked eyes, “We’re coming.”


	4. Against Your Will

You felt the weight of the bath towel draped around your shoulders and then a pair of strong arms pick you up. It was only then that you let your eyes break contact with the carnage.

Withdrawing internally, you could barely hear the calming words Sam muttered as he walked you down the hall; carrying you in his arms like a kicked puppy.

You had done that.  
You didn’t remember doing it.

It certainly wasn’t premeditated, but that didn’t make Father LeRoy any less dead.

You stared ahead in a fog as one word disrupted your strange calm - Devereaux.

Sam held your face in his large hands, pressed warmly against your cheeks, as he tried to look you in the eye. Pulling yourself back into the present you took a shaky breath, in and out. Then one more.

“I was spelled.” Your voice crackled, “I didn’t think they would actually….”

Sam nodded, staring at your expression with eyebrows raised. “You okay in there?”

“No, not really.” You raised your crimson stained hands as evidence and felt the bile rise in your throat; you barely made it to the toilet in time.

Sam, God bless the giant, held your hair back.  
It was mortifying.

Finally your nausea subsided and you stood. At the sink you splashed your face with cold water and rinsed out your mouth before your eyes came to rest on the younger Winchester, leaning against the bathroom wall behind you.

“What do you remember?” Sam asked gently as you did your best to take even breaths.

“Not much. I was on the steps and I got lightheaded - I thought for sure I was going to take a spill. Then-” your eyes glazed over; remembering.

“I don’t know how much you remember of the last time you were here with your father, but the Devereaux’s and my family have been at it for ages.” You took another steadying breath, “They want her journal.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, “Her journal?”

You were exhausted and didn’t have the patience for a long winded explanation. “Long story short, Margaret Devereaux is a power hungry bitch who was - once upon a time - best of friends with my grandmother, Adele. They had a real ugly falling out.”

You knew you were rambling but you had to get it out, “As you can imagine, being two best friends, they shared spellwork, notes, articles - all that good stuff was kept in my grandmother’s journal. Margaret wants it and she wants it somethin’ fierce.” You stopped to stare at yourself in the mirror, still covered in pieces of the Father LeRoy. “Sam, I didn’t do it. I didn’t.”

“I know how this looks.” You shrugged, tucking an errant strand of hair into your messy bun. “I can’t prove it, but I intend to put a stop to it so it doesn’t happen again.” You shivered, recounting the events of the evening, “There’s nothing so invasive as someone using your own body against your will.”

Sam dropped his eyes to the floor. He knew exactly what that was like.

Lucifer.  
Gadreel.

Hell, he supposed he could even half-count the time he spent without a soul.

Your eyes flicked over to his and a knock echoed on the heavy oak door. Sam cracked it and you could hear Dean’s voice softly on the other side.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Sam nodded and looked steadily back to you through your reflection in the mirror. “Clean yourself up, I’ll be right outside.”

* * *

Dean leaned against the adjacent wall and made a face of utter disgust and tapped the back of his head against the wall for emphasis. “Fucking witches, man.”

“Tell me about it. She’s a mess.” Sam sighed.

Dean’s eyebrows shot into his hairline, “She’s a mess? What about Padre in the other room? I mean-” he was so exasperated he couldn’t form words, “Sam!”

“I know!” The younger Winchester threw his hands up in the air. “I know Dean, but as far as I can tell she was being manipulated. I can’t in good conscience put down an innocent girl!”

Dean growled in response, kicking the baseboards of the hallway. “You and fucking monsters Sammy, I swear to God.”

Sam whirled, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dean glared at his younger brother before straightening his shoulders and dismissing the argument altogether. “I’m going to go bag up the crime scene so we can let our pal the wicked bitch of the bayou off with a slap on the wrist.”

“C’mon Dean.” Sam called weakly after his brother, but Dean was already up the small flight of stairs and out of sight. You cleared your throat; having heard at least three-quarters of the conversation, you knew you were on thin ice.

As you pressed your back against the door of the bathroom you tried your best to stay silent. You knew they would never let you out of their sight, what scared you more was if they decided you were a threat - regardless of the circumstances.

The Winchesters had garnered a name for themselves in the years since they had last met and you weren’t interested in testing the validity of the rumors surrounding their name. You waited for the sound of Sam’s heavy footfalls to leave the doorway and took a deep breath.

Now that you were the last thing standing between the Deveraux’s and the journal you were a magnet for trouble - you couldn’t involve them any further. They settled their debt with your family many years ago. The boys didn’t owe you or your family a thing.

Looking outside you eyed the ivy creeping up the side of the old lattice to the right of the second story bathroom.

It had been a long, long time since you snuck out of Grand-mère Adele’s.

As you cautiously worked your way around the side of the house, cursing silently at yourself when you realised you forgot your keys inside, an idea sprang to the forefront of your mind.

The garage.

As you circled around to the side of the estate, with your hand hovering a few inches above the lock, you whispered a basic incantation and heard the tumblers shift with a satisfying click.

You tried your best to lift the old garage door silently and dusted off your hands on your tights that you had opted into. A smile graced your lips at the familiar outline of your matte black Suzuki Bandit - your escape. You knew that the engine would certainly alert the Winchesters to your presence so you walked the bike up the long gravel drive, only stopping to mount up when you felt you had put enough distance between yourself and the estate as needed.

Muttering a series of power words you bit the pad of your finger, releasing a few drops of blood to draw a litany of symbols on the muffler before starting up the engine. You smiled in satisfaction when the normal roar of the bike sounded no more loudly than the purr of a common house cat.

Straddling the bike, you looked casually over your shoulder and up at the windows of the house. You felt horrible leaving like this but no good would come of dragging the Winchester brothers into your family matters.

With a small smile you set off in the direction of Rosalie’s - she would be able to furnish you with the supplies you needed. Even better, the bitch knew how to keep a secret.


	5. Blood

A few hours later you found yourself sitting at Rosalie’s bar with a strong cup of syrupy black coffee. She had done well in your absence, opened a bar for herself with a small hoodoo shop she ran out of the back selling supplies and small spells to locals. It was a cozy set-up.

Rose had always been around both of your families and was frequently mistaken for a Laveau. Yours and Magda’s sister. ‘Three peas in a pod’ she could remember Mamé saying. Mamé had even referred to her as a daughter on a handful of occasions and that woman valued family above all else. Rosalie was a Devereaux by birth but had run away to the Laveau family home when her father raised his hand one too many times.

She still carried some of the scars and you would never forget the sight of Mamé standing between her and Rose’s father in the foyer. You couldn’t remember exactly what words were exchanged, but you do remember the look of terror in Mr. Devereaux’s eyes as he stepped back over the threshold of your family estate.

Mr. Devereaux had been dead for some years now, heart attack. ‘The man smoked 20 cigarettes a day since he was 17 years old and beat his wife ‘n kids twice that many times,’ Mamé drawled, ‘bout time something came along and put a stop to it.’

That had been an awkward funeral. You didn’t think Rose ever knew much about her father’s ‘heart condition’ but you could be wrong, she never really spoke about it

“So you’re telling me that after all these years my waspy bitch-mother still can’t bury the hatchet?” Rosalie scrunched her nose in disgust, “You don’t really think that she did something to Mamé?”

“I know it, she so much as confessed it to me when she,” it turned your stomach to think about Father LeRoy and your voice lowered, “spelled my house.” You fingered the silver locket Mamé gave you and sipped the chicory brew.

Rosalie stood tall behind the bar, thought quietly for a minute, then bent low to whisper over your drinks. “You know she’d always been pissed at Mamé after that incident with Magda. She’s wanted that book back for as long as I can remember and when I wouldn’t do her dirty work for her, well you know….”

“I know, that’s part of the reason I left town. I know Magda was sick, but they never told me just how sick until it was too late. Then we had our falling out with the Devereaux’s.”

Rose poured some more coffee in your cup and tilted her head inquisitively, “Well have you ever thought about reading the journal yourself?”

“Of course I have.” You snorted indignantly. “I know where it is, I just don’t think I’ve got the heart to go and get it.”

Rose laid a hand over yours, “Sweetheart, where is it?”

“The only place Mamé knew your family wouldn’t look for it,” you took another long sip of the coffee, “she buried it with Magda.”

Rose rolled her eyes to the ceiling and twisted her dreadlocks deftly, “That’s fucked up, girl.” Rose looked like she was about to gag. Reaching behind her she pulled a brown bottle of rum from behind the counter and poured a generous helping into your mug. “Well…if we’re going to be doing some heavy lifting, do you think if you told those handsome FBI boys they might want to help?”

“No!” you nearly shrieked, “Absolutely not, we cannot involve them.”

Rose threw her hands up in surrender, knocked back a shot of rum, and wiped her hands on the bar towel. “Girl, you’re lucky I love you. I get off in 20. Go get the shovels.” She pushed the bottle of rum across the bar towards you, “This is coming too.”

* * *

“This fucking city is…always,” you punctuated every thrust with your shovel with a curse, “fucking…wet!”

Rose cackled and took another puff of her hand-rolled cigarette. “What do you think Magda would say if she could see us now?” She rested her head on the handle of her tall shovel.

“I think she would say stop being a lazy bum and dig me the fuck up! Get in here and help me, bitch.” You smeared muddy rainwater off your chin and reached for the rum, taking a long burning swig that reinvigorated your numb limbs.

“All right, all right.” Rose slid back into the moderate hole they had carved in the earth and stared up at the face of the gravemarker, overlooking the cemetery. Judging.

Suddenly, your shovel jarred in your hand and you realized you’d found Magda. “Fuck, fuck-fuck!” You dropped the shovel and wiped your hands on your jacket. “Rose that’s her. We found her.” A low moan escaped your mouth as you scrambled out of the hole and put the rum bottle to your lips. “I don’t think I can do it.”

Rose snatched the bottle from your lips and raised it to her own, “You always were squeamish.” With a conviction, you didn’t recognize in your friend you watched her clear the top of the coffin and wedge her shovel between the boards to pry it open. You couldn’t bear to look yourself. Magda was so young when she passed, you wanted to remember her as she was.

“Have I ever told you, you’re my best friend Rose?” You stood with your back to the hole, hands on your knees drawing deep breaths.

“You used to,” there was a grunt of effort and a crack of wood, “all the time, my bitch.”

Suddenly, you felt something grip your ankle and you reflexively shrieked and Rose used her remaining strength, and your ankle, to pull herself up and out of the grave. In her other hand, she brandished a book. It was far too large to be a journal.

“Jesus, that’s much bigger than I expected.” You whispered, holding your hand out for your grandmother’s journal. Rose placed it in your hand and reached for the bottle of bourbon, draining the last of its contents.

“It’s a heavy fucker that’s for sure. All these years and it was right here.” Rose pushed you deftly to the car, “C’mon, we have to get that out of the rain. Go put it in the backseat and help me put Magda back to rest. We’re not earning bonus points for desecrating resting places, I feel sick to my stomach about the whole thing.”

You took off your rain slicker and wrapped the dirty leather bound book in the dry warmth from your body heat and placed it lovingly on the passenger seat of the car behind you both and went back to fill in the wet earth that covered the body of your long dead sister.

* * *

Sam and Dean sat in the refuge of the warm and dry cab of the Impala, sipping warm coffee. Dean was busy bathing in powdered sugar as he jammed beignets into his mouth, one after the other. Sam looked over at his brother in disgust.

“Dude. Take a breath between them at least. I’m getting sick just watching you.”

“Yeah, sorry Emeril. They don’t serve salad at Cafe DuMonde.” Dean grinned into the bag of warm pastries and whispered lovingly into the brown paper. “Don’t listen to him, he doesn’t understand us.” Sam leaned over and punched his brother in the shoulder, deadening his arm.

Sam was squinting, trying to see through the rain, “What the hell are they doing over there?”

“Well, Inspector looks like they’re digging up a body!” Dean mouthed around powdered sugar, licking his fingers emphatically.

“Woah, hold on.” Sam leaned on the dash as he watched you wrapping something in your jacket and put something in the car. “Did you see that?” Dean was suddenly very attentive.

“Yup. I’m on it.”

“Wait, what?” Sam turned to see his brother was already halfway out of the driver’s side door and anxiously watched Dean sneak around the mausoleums and headstones until he had access to the side of the car not facing the disturbed grave. Dean carefully opened the car door and Sam watched as his brother rummaged for a few minutes in the passenger’s seat and made his way back to the car holding a bundle tight to his chest.

Dean opened the car door, slid inside sopping wet and handed Sam the bundle. He eagerly unwrapped the jacket to find an old, earthy smelling, leather bound book. As Sam flipped through the pages his eyes widened in admiration.

“Well, nerd, what’s the verdict?” Dean ran his hands through his hair and shook his head like a dog, Sam shielded the book with his body and frowned in his brother’s direction.

“It’s a grimoire,” Sam whispered. Dean stared blankly.

“It’s the Laveau family spell book. It’s probably been passed down for decades, probably longer. I mean, look at this Dean!” Sam flipped through the pages, “I need more time to examine it, I don’t even recognize more than a handful of symbols in here.”

“Well hurry up! I need to get that back in the car.” Dean egged his brother on as Sam pulled out his phone and began taking pictures of the pages.

Dean urged Sam to hurry and hurriedly wrapped the book in the jacket before retracing his steps to the car across the graveyard, replacing the book exactly where it had been, just as you and Rose finished placing the last shovel-fulls of dirt in the depression in the soil.

Sam watched his brother climb back into the car as you and Rose made your way back to the vehicle. Sam’s mouth fell open in shock as he watched Rose hit you in the back of the head with her shovel; you crumpled to the ground in a boneless heap.

* * *

You remembered reading somewhere that when people break bones or get shot that adrenaline blocks the pain receptors. Usually, or so you read, you’re supposed to feel the pain later on when the brain finally gets its synapses around the idea that you’ve suffered some kind of trauma.

Shortly after your face hit the muddy ground and you felt the warm rivulets of your own blood begin to run over your face, you realized that statement was a load of bullshit.

It hurt. It hurt a lot.

You rolled over on your back just in time to see Rosalie’s face contort into an ugly mix of fury and determination. As she brought down the shovel overhead in an attempt to bludgeon you again, you threw your hands over your head and shouted the first score of spell work that came to mind.

Rosalie was thrown backward over a nearby headstone with a shriek of surprise and you barely had the wherewithal to bring yourself to your feet when you felt large hands prop up the majority of your weight. You were suddenly very thankful that you forced yourself to practice battle magic last summer in Madrid.

The grave markers before you throbbed and swirled in your mind as you struggled to remain conscious. A familiar voice in your ear brought you back to reality and you realized it was Sam wiping the blood from your face as he tried to get you to focus. Dean was busy grappling with Rosalie on the ground behind him until he was forced to his knees, coughing up crimson. Rose had clearly also been practicing her own flavor of battle magic in your absence.

“Dean!” Sam screamed, unwilling to leave you alone, clearly torn between holding you upright and strangling Rose.

“When did she get to you, Ro?” You forced the words out of your mouth, tasting the blood on your tongue as you slowly pushed Sam behind you. Dangerous as he was, the younger Winchester wasn’t much good to you in a fight like this one. Dean writhed on the ground and you heard a sharp crack. You grimly realized what Rosalie was doing. “This is a family matter, Ro. Let them go.”

“Family?” The word only seemed to inflame her rage. “Family. We were never family. Mamé treated me like the red-headed step child in your house. She murdered my father.” A disturbing calm fell over her face as she looked deep into your eyes. “You left me here, alone.”

“Ro, I’m sorry.” You whispered.

“Sorry? You’re sorry.” Her hand wrenched again and Dean went stiff as another cry of agony fell from his lips. “Let me help you with your understanding of the word, sister.”

Before she could manage another word you felt the calm wash over you as it had so many times before. The space between moments where you could feel the wind, the rainwater trickling over your face, the pressure in the air before lightning struck and the rumble of thunder just before it pealed overhead. You felt the kinetic energy in the moment and pulled it together, building it inside, a monument of power.

The rainwater was the easiest to gather as there was so damn much of it. You pulled it from the ground and the very air itself until it amassed in front of you. With a muttered word you ripped the heat from the water and the liquid flash-froze in midair.

Rose stared in amazement in one instant and in the next she gasped as the frozen orb tore a bloody hole right through the center of her chest where her heart had been.

The whole process took maybe thirty seconds, but it felt like an eternity. She never stood a chance. Just as the world went black and you felt your consciousness leave your body you felt Rosalie’s power dissipate. You were now well and truly alone.


End file.
